


Somewhere North of Stowe

by Sanj



Category: Glee
Genre: Canadian Shack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:58:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanj/pseuds/Sanj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We are definitely in Vermont,” Blaine said firmly, just as their headlights illuminated a sign saying <i>Bienvenue à St. Armand</i>, complete with maple leaf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere North of Stowe

“What time is it?” The mumble came from behind the flaps of a stylish vicuña wool chullo hat. “It’s two in the morning! You should have woken me up!”

As cute as he was all sleep-mussed and slumped in the passenger seat, Blaine kind of wished that Kurt had stayed asleep. “You don’t get enough sleep at college,” he said. “I figured you’d better rest up for when we get to the resort.”

“Which, according to my calculations, we should have reached two hours ago. What does the GPS say?”

“Well.”

“Blaine!” It was no good; Kurt was awake now. “Where is Stowe? There should be Stowe here. With skiing, and hot chocolate, and Rachel, and Rachel’s terrifyingly cute dads.”

 _Because Rachel apparently needs four gay men as opposed to the average hag’s one,_ Blaine did not say, because (a) he liked Rachel; (b) the Berrys were putting him and his boyfriend up for a week’s vacation in Vermont; and (c) he had hope of getting laid on said vacation.

Right. Helpful and practical now equaled warm and comfy in a bed full of boyfriend soon. “Mainly all I have seen for the past two hours are trees, mud, and the occasional SUV. And the GPS gave up back when we got off the interstate.”

“But when we were on the interstate we knew _where we were,_ ” Kurt whined.

“We are definitely in Vermont,” Blaine said firmly, just as their headlights illuminated a sign saying _Bienvenue à St. Armand_ , complete with maple leaf. Blaine screeched to a halt. He might be lost, but anything in French was definitely the wrong way.

“Um.” And apparently Kurt was trying to be tactful about this. Which was good, because they were in the middle of nowhere, apparently in _Canada_ , and his iPhone was still saying NO SERVICE in cruel green letters across the top of the picture he’d taken of Kurt back in June. The Kurt in the picture was in a paper-thin wet t-shirt and smiling invitingly.

Kurt in the present was in a Patagonia double-down parka, and scowling at the battered old paper atlas from the backseat. “You didn’t, like, talk to a border guard or anything?”

“I swear to god, no,” Blaine vowed. “There was just this everlasting dirt road.” He got out of the car and started to look around for anything like a landmark. Trees. Rocks. Mud. They looked just like the ones at home. And the ones in Vermont, New Hampshire, and New York. God, he was tired.

“Blaine, we are in Canada.” Kurt got out of the car, worked up now. “We’re illegal immigrants! We’ve jumped over the wall!”

“I’m telling you: there was no wall to jump. I was just driving north.”

“How do you miss a whole ski resort town?” Every sentence out of Kurt’s mouth was going up a half-octave. “There have to be lights, on, maybe, ski jumps, or signs, or other cars –“

This was not a part of Kurt’s personality that Blaine had missed, honestly. “Kurt. Please. I screwed up.” He held out his hands, not quite daring to grab Kurt by the shoulders when he was vibrating at this pitch. “I’m scared too, okay? We don’t have a lot of gas, and I haven’t seen a gas station in hours. Help.”

Kurt’s panic erased as soon as he was put in charge. Blaine sighed, relaxing, because some things were predictable in this universe even if State Highway 108 was demonstrably not. “Okay. I’m sorry. Just. Canada.”

“Yeah.” And now he dared, reaching out and taking hold of Kurt’s shoulder, and then sliding into his embrace. They just stood there a moment, breathing each other’s breath.

Much better.

“I’ve never actually been to another country before,” Kurt mused. “It’s pretty, actually.”

It was pretty. There were a million stars in the sky and the air was gorgeously fresh. Blaine opened the passenger door to his battered Volvo, and Kurt settled back in. They started creeping along the road, looking for any sign of habitation.

There wasn’t any. A gas station, yes, but closed for the night; a convenience store, ditto. (“Not terribly convenient,” was Kurt’s absent judgment.)

“A hotel. Motel. Something,” Blaine begged the road, and it yielded up a series of small, battered cabins, abandoned for the season.

“I don’t want to go much further away from this gas station tonight,” he began, but Kurt was already digging in the backseat again for their flashlight and the emergency sleeping bag. Because you never knew which way that boy was going to go: pragmatic and resourceful, or oh-my-god-there-could-be-spiders.

One of the cabins was close enough to the road that they could park right in front of it, and its door obligingly opened. It was empty except for two chairs, and a set of godawful chintz curtains. The floor, however, was carpeted and looked mostly clean.

Kurt set them up on the floor while Blaine went back out and tried one more time for a cell signal. He managed to send a text to Rachel that didn’t rebound immediately; it would have to do. _Got lost, we’re fine, see you tomorrow_.

Back in the room, Kurt had laid out the sleeping bag on the floor and shed his parka. “Coat,” he demanded, and Blaine handed him his ski jacket. Kurt formed this into a pillow, and then laid his ginormous parka on top for a blanket. “Ta-da. Home decorating with found objects.”

“You’re a genius,” Blaine snuggled under the parka and pulled Kurt close. “You know, the Scouts say that the best treatment for hypothermia is skin-to-skin contact.”

Kurt smiled, a real smile, and kissed him. “Do all Boy Scouts use that as a pick-up line?”

“A, not really a Scout anymore. B, probably. C, is it working?”

“You had me back at ‘lost in Canada and out of gas.’ For the record.” Kurt slid his cold hands under Blaine’s sweater, and the skin-to-skin contact thing looked like it might be a winner.

**Author's Note:**

> St.-Armand, QC, to my knowledge, does not exist, and St.-Armand-Centre is a (very slightly) larger and cuter town than the place depicted here. Also, VT 180 does actually have a border guard. Probably.
> 
> Thanks to Kass Rachel for making me get off my butt, and to Ellen Fremedon for quick beta. Back in the day, this would have been twice too long to be a Canadian Shack story, but you whippersnappers don't seem to mind nowadays. :)


End file.
